


Stuck Somewhere in Between

by Twisted_Silver



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Divergent, Desolation!Tim, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Martin is there to help, Michael Shelley Lives, Michael doesn't know how to deal with being the caree not the carer, Michael has to work through a lot of stuff, Rated T for:, Tags to be updated as necessary, but he doesn't feel great about it, but references Mag 160 spoilers, discussions of/referenced past abuse, discussions/depictions of mental illness, he couldn't tell his gender from a hole in the ground, mentions of transphobia, michael uses he/him but make no mistake!, nonbinary michael, post spiral au, post-spiral!Michael, set around the unknowing, sex is mentioned (but not shown), this is mostly me projecting on michael and also all the other characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23922109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Silver/pseuds/Twisted_Silver
Summary: ON INDEFINITE HIATUSThere still was a creature, passably human but not quite, that was called Michael. They were related to Michael Shelly in the same way that someone who is thirty was related to the person they were when they were sixteen, and the person they were when they were eight. Still absolutely the same person, and absolutely not at the same time.AU where the Distortion spits Michael Shelley out after Helen, only he's still a spiral avatar, has a lot of trauma to unpack, and isn't happy about anything that's happening. Ms Helen Distortion is his weird friend/sibling/parental figure. Jon can be a bit of dick sometimes. Martin is there.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Michael Shelley & The Spiral, Michael Shelley/Tim Stoker, Michael Shelly/Martin Blackwood
Comments: 14
Kudos: 106





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe some day I'll stop writing about one tall lad, but today is not that day.
> 
> [This](https://dimensiondweller.tumblr.com/post/618378221132627968/proposed-timeline-for-the-archival-workers-and) is the time line that all my fics will be operating under, unless marked otherwise.

Helen told the Archivist that Michael was gone, and well, that was  _ sort of _ true. True enough for the Archivist to follow It through Its door and away from the Stranger. The Micheal he had come to know was gone, just as the Michael that had first entered the Distortion’s halls was gone. These things were true. But they were gone in the way that the Jon that had existed prior to becoming the Archivist was gone. There still was a creature, passably human but not quite, that was called Michael. They were related to Michael Shelly in the same way that someone who is thirty was related to the person they were when they were sixteen, and the person they were when they were eight. Still absolutely the same person, and absolutely not at the same time. 

The Michael that existed now, was sitting on the floor in a hall that used to be part of itself, staring at the reflection of kaleidoscope eyes on the opposite wall. They were aware, it was aware, that they were no longer what they had been before, or before that. Michael was something in between those things now. Something that might have been a woman once said beside them (them?). It studied the mirror, the thing that showed the truths of creatures made of lies. 

“I am not you.” Michael said eventually, because it was something to say. They didn’t consider if the statement was accurate. That didn’t seem important. 

They were… uncomfortable. Trying to fit the soft, fragile thing that was a human mind into the sharp, twisting framework of the Distortion had been incredibly painful the first time, and now, trying to fit the infinite, spiraling thing that had been the Distortion into the confines of a human mind was no better. 

“Yes and no.” The creature's warped voice was comfortable, more comfortable than thinking, so Michael just listened. “We are two parts of the same thing. Neither of us would be whole without the other.” It’s voice was a different color than Michael’s but it was the same shape. Looping fractals that danced in the air. 

“That’s why I am alive.”

The creature nodded. 

“I shouldn’t be.” 

It placed one of Its large, sharp hands over Michael’s. It did not cut them. “Neither of us should  _ be _ .” 

Finally (he? they? it?) Michael turned towards It. “You are called Helen. What am I?” 

“You are Michael. You are human and you are distortion and you are none of those things.” 

“Michael.” The name felt strange, but only a little uncomfortable. “Helen?” 

“Yes?” 

Something hot and buzzing dripped down his (his? It did not feel right but nothing felt _ right _ and so it must be right because Michael knew nothing that didn’t feel wrong) chin. He looked back at the mirror and saw a rainbow of garish color spilling from his lips. He didn’t know if it was real (was he real?) and it tasted like blood and static. Helen brought one sharp finger to wipe it away. “I hurt.” He mumbled. Trying to think had set his Distorted mind thrashing against its human bindings and the result was agony. 

“It will get easier. For now you do not need to think.” The creature that wasn’t anymore Helen Richardson that he was Michael Shelly said, pulling him into something like a hug. Its sharp fingers carded ever so gently through his hair in a way he may have thought was affectionate, if there had been anything in his head but warm static and soothing spirals. He slept for a very long time. 

* * *

It was easier to understand Michael Shelley’s memories now that he was almost human again. He didn’t think that that was a good thing. Most of those memories were of pain, even those from before he stepped through the door. He had found some sort of equilibrium between human and Distortion, and while beings still hurt, he could think and speak without coughing up something that was and was not blood. The Distortion’s memories were harder to understand now, but they were mostly anger. Now Michael felt guilt and apprehension. 

He stood in front of a mirror and straightened his coat. He was taller than he had been as Michael Shelley, and thinner, though his body lacked the Distortions monstrous proportions. Michael’s hair only seemed to defy gravity  _ a little bit _ and the curls, for the moment, were still. His eyes still looked a bit like an acid trip, but no amount of focus or prodding seemed to fix that. Not here, at least. Maybe outside of the Distortion’s halls he would be able to convince the rest of the world that they were normal. He managed to restrain the fractals of his voice to something less inherently nauseating, and after no small amount of effort and practice, Michael could pass as a human again. 

Helen watched him calmly as he looked through the wallet that was still in his clothes.

“Michael Shelley,” he muttered, holding the Magnus Institute employee badge. The name didn’t feel like it belonged to him, but it was the closest thing he had to a human identity. Turning the card over in his hands, he sighed. “I do not want to go back to the Eye.” 

“You do not belong to it. You don’t have to go back.” 

He looked up at it. “It was the only place Michael Shelley had.” 

Helen considered that for a moment. “You can always come here, if you need.”  _ This is still your home  _ remained unspoken, but no less true. 

Michael hugged It, and It wrapped Its arms around him too many times. “Thank you,” 

“Do not forget to feed.” It said when they eventually separated and he opened the door that now led to the Institute. 

“I won’t.” He smiled, and when he stepped through the door it felt like he was leaving a part of himself behind. He supposed he was. 

* * *

Elias found himself, quite frustratingly, in an  _ unforeseen  _ situation. Someone, or something, that purported themself to be Michael Shelley was in front of his desk. He couldn’t See or Know much more about the man, other than that he was human, or an avatar more likely, and he reeked of the Distortion. If he really was Michael Shelley he’d been well and truly claimed in the ten odd years he was gone. In any event, Elias had no desire to let an avatar of the Spiral into his Archives, much less pay one to be there. The problem was, with all the people who went missing or died while working at the Institute, if he had properly reported all of them he’d be in a lot of legal hot water. The Queen didn’t tend to look kindly on businesses whose employees all went missing or were found dead. 

To remedy that, he tended to just put those people on a sort of indefinite leave. He didn’t have to continue to pay the corpse, and since most of the people who ended up working in the parts of the Institute with… high turnover rates… tended to not have much by way of friends or family, no one typically came knocking. It wasn’t as if they would come back, either, so it had worked well enough for him since the labor laws in London had been tightened. There were people who’d been dead for a hundred years or so who were still technically employed under him, and it had been going fine for that long. Except now Michael Shelley was back, and Elias had never  _ actually _ terminated his contract. If he tried to now, there was a very real possibility Shelley could sue, and he had enough on his plate as it was. He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb. 

“Don’t cause any trouble.” Elias said finally. 

The man laughed and the sound was mostly human, but his smile was anything but encouraging. “Of course.” 

* * *

Jon frowned. “Michael.”

“Yes, Archivist? Or would you rather I call you Jon? Mr. Sims?” He was sitting across from the man in the Archives. Being annoying was less painful than remembering the last time he was there as Michael Shelley. 

“You were dead.” The irritation rolled off of Jon in a rust colored cloud, tinged by confusion. “Helen killed you.” 

“Is that what It told you?” Michael responded, genuinely curious. 

“She said you were gone.” 

“Ah, well. I was. I’m back now, aren’t you happy to see me?” 

“To work here again.” 

“More or less. I’ve still got a contract,” 

“As Michael Shelley.” 

“Sort of.” Michael was beginning to get uncomfortable with the Archivist’s compulsion. He couldn’t see it as well as he could before he was a he again, and he had even more trouble pushing it away before it tried to dig into him. Jon trying to force truths from him was really uncalled for, he hadn’t intended to try and deceive the man any more than usual. 

“Are you lying to me?”   
He shifted in his seat, crossing the line from _uncomfortable_ to _in pain_ as he tried first to lie, then to derail the conversation, and finally to just keep his mouth shut. “Not in any way that matters.” Michael finally gasped out, then frowned. “Would you stop that? It hurts.” He hugged himself as the glowing eyes of the Archivist stared _through_ him. 

“Were you actually going to kill me?” 

The squirming tendrils redoubled their efforts to drag answers from him, trying to map his twists and curves. “ _ No.”  _ Michael all but hissed, and for a moment the Archivist recoiled, and the tendrils stopped their searching. It didn’t last. 

"Are you really Michael Shelley?"

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt physically ill, but now he was sure he was on the verge of throwing up. “I’m the closest thing to Michael Shelley that still exists.” He hissed through clenched teeth. He was shaking and glaring at the Archivist, who’d looked into him and laid his bloody truths bare for the Eye to see and consume. 

“I suppose you can be trusted.” 

* * *

Michael had just finished throwing up in the staff bathroom when Martin found him. The man was clearly startled and afraid when he first noticed him. 

“I uh, I thought you were dead, or something.” Martin managed to stammer out, whilst clearly looking for any doors that shouldn’t have been there. 

“After Helen the Distortion spit me out.” It wasn’t true, but it was close enough to get the general idea across. 

“Oh! So you’re Michael Shelley then?” The ill fitting identity grated against his already frayed being. 

“Just Michael, is fine.”

“Wait, are you alright?” 

Michael wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Jon interrogated me. I’m still connected to the Spiral and he wouldn’t stop even though I told him he was hurting me.” He could see his voice start to go swirly at the edges and focused on fixing it, instead of the familiar rage snaking through him. 

Martin frowned. “God damn it Jon!” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I”ll talk to him. In the meantime, would you like some tea? I was actually going to put the kettle on myself, so it’s no trouble.” Martin was lying about the last part, but it was a nice gesture and so far Michael’s welcome had been less than warm. 

“Sure, that sounds nice. Thanks.” 

Martin, to his credit, didn’t ask any prying questions. He actually did most of the talking, in a nervous, rambling sort of way that reminded Michael of who he had been before. He thought he liked Martin. The man spoke in soft blues and pale greens and reminded Michael of strawberries. He was nice. 

“I’m sorry.” He said as he was helping Martin wash up. 

“Pardon?” He turned to face him, and his puzzled look felt soft. Michael liked it. 

“I wasn’t,” he paused. “I was mean to you, before. Scaring you and such, when I was the Distortion. I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure if that was true. He had a lot of conflicting feelings about what he’d done as the Distortion. Part of Michael, the part that had always been human, told him that he’d been incredibly cruel. The parts that had always been twisted said It had only been obeying Its nature. He did feel guilty, at least, even if it was among other things, and he figured experiencing it was probably worth something. 

“Oh,” he seemed to blush and look away. “It’s okay. Of all of the monsters I’ve dealt with, you at least never actively tried to kill me. I think.” 

“I didn’t." He didn't think he did. "Regardless, you deserve more than just to just not die. It's Martin, right? Thank you for the tea. It’s been… a really long time since anyone’s done anything nice like that for me.” 

“O-oh, um, it’s no trouble, really.” He got the sense that Martin didn’t get thanked much. He really was like Michael Shelley, maybe more than Michael was. 

“Still, thank you. I’ll see you round, yeah?” 

“Oh, um yeah. Yeah. Have a nice afternoon Michael.” Martin smiled at him. 

* * *

Michael focused on the halls and opened the closet door again. Still cleaning supplies. He tried a few more times, and briefly considered giving up and just calling for Helen, but decided that if he was going to defend himself against the Eye at all, he needed to at least have a way out, with or without the rest of the Distortion physically present. He ran a hand through his hair and then his face fell. For a moment he seriously considered bashing his head against the wall, because, as he had just realized, no amount of trying to  _ see _ the halls in his mind would make them appear. Maybe he was more Michael Shelley than he had thought. Maybe the Eye had already started to unravel him. Michael wasn’t partial to either possibility. He took a deep breath and placed his hand on the handle again, and instead of trying to make the halls appear he just… let his mind wander. 

Being human again was certainly an experience. In some ways, being mostly Distortion had made more sense than being Michael Shelley ever had, not that It would ever admit to anything of the sort. It acted on instinct, on whim. Its actions could be explained because Its motivations were simple. Why did It take people? It wanted to feed. Why did It help the Archivist? The alternative would have hurt It. The Distortion was just one of many hands and It didn’t need to reconcile its actions with a sense of self or morality. It acted because It did. To attempt to explain It any other way was a fool's errand, and so It was easy to explain. He had been It long enough to understand It. It chased sustenance and avoided pain. All of Its other actions, when viewed through that lense, were trivial. 

Michael Shelley though. He didn’t make sense on the best of days. He defied explanation in a way the pure Distortion could never hope to achieve. His actions couldn’t be attributed to instinct, because he ignored his. At nearly every major turn in his life he had ignored his instincts. Even when it led him back into the arms of men he knew would hurt him. Even when creatures that couldn’t exist in a sane world started attacking the Institute. Even when he had seen the blue in Gertrude’s voice as she told him it would be a routine trip. Michael’s actions never seemed to have anything to do with sustaining himself or avoiding pain. He’s just as soon tear into himself as he would hide from others who tried to do the same. He’d go entire weeks on nothing but black tea and broken promises. It couldn’t even be said he did things for approval, or love. As soon as anyone tried to get close he drew into himself and pushed them away. 

Michael Shelley never behaved in any way that could be consistently attributed to anything, as far as he was concerned. He was a walking paradox long before he’d found the center of the Distortion. Hell. He had managed to make It make less sense. His humanness had turned Its actions erratic. His mind had been forced through the creature’s twists and spirals and not only had he managed to affect  _ It,  _ he had been ripped away from It and lived. He’d kept all his messy human feelings and thoughts that should never have fit in that non euclidean hell in the first place, and now on the other side? He didn’t feel any different. He desperately wanted to be something he wasn’t, to not be what he was. Sure the “was” and “wasn’t” had changed, the pain had a different flavor, the boxes were ticked in different colors, but after everything, he was still just Michael. Too much and not enough and he, who had been twisted into an incarnation of madness and  _ understood It _ , didn’t understand himself. He didn't want to be human again, because at least as the Distortion  _ he  _ didn't have to think about himself. He just was, or wasn't, it didn't really matter.

Michael wasn’t sure how long he’d been wandering through the halls. The remnants of pain from his encounter with the Archivist had faded, but he still felt ill. Helen hadn’t appeared yet, so he assumed It was busy. Perhaps It had changed Its mind, decided it was too uncomfortable to exist with a part of Itself twisted the wrong way into something human. He knew It hadn’t. He knew that was the biggest difference between himself and It. It was not capable of understanding, or even trying to, on anything more than a superficial level. How was a hand to comprehend its actions, when it was controlled by something else? It knew only how and when to move. Not why. He wished he didn’t understand that. He was afraid of what it might mean. 

* * *

“Maybe I deserved it,” he sighed, watching his words spiral and echo and feeling painfully human. For Its part, Helen hadn’t even bothered with the pretense of humanity at the moment. He wondered how much of Helen Richardson was actually left in the creature that occasionally wore her name. It was wrapped around him in a way that he didn’t try to understand, but unfortunately did. It was comfortable at least, and he tried to tell himself that was all he cared about. 

Its "head" was resting somewhere in the vicinity of his shoulder. “The Archivist was being cruel.” 

“He’s not usually, though. Maybe he wanted revenge.” Michael yawned. 

It made a sound like a hum out through a blender. “Perhaps the Eye was desperate for our truths." Maybe there was more Helen than he thought. Maybe that would be enough. 

“Maybe. Whatever the reason, it hurt.” He felt static pushing gently at his senses, and loved and hated the not having to think in equal measure. The periods where he just, wasn’t, filled him with as much comfort as they did with fear. 

“I felt it.” Helen said softly. “He will not hurt us again.” 

He let his head rest against what might have been Its chest, even though what he really wanted was to leave. Already the ragged parts the Archivist had left felt soothed. Eventually, he slept. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michael has to come to terms with how human he still is and doesn't like that one bit. Martin has a crush.

Martin went into the Archives and stood across from Jon, arms folded over his chest. 

“Hello Martin,” he looked up from the statement he’d been glancing over and saw Martin’s expression. “Is something wrong?” He asked, not without concern. 

“Yes.” Martin frowned. “Yes  _ something is wrong.  _ You hurt Michael.” 

“I… what? How could I have...” Jon trailed off as he thought back to when Michael had been in earlier. The man had come in to bother him, he’d ignored him, and then he left. But no, that wasn’t what had happened. He saw himself questioning Michael, and it was like watching someone else’s memory. Michael had asked him to stop and he… he hadn’t. Jon put his head in his hands, quietly horrified with himself. “Christ.” 

“You can’t just do that Jon! He looked like death when I found him.” 

“Is, is he alright? I-I didn’t mean to, I…” He sounded helpless and Martin’s look softened. 

“I think so. I haven’t seen him in a couple of hours but he was looking better when he left. You need to be more careful Jon.” Martin sighed. “And you need to apologize.” 

“I will. I’m sorry Martin.” He rubbed his face. 

Martin turned towards the door, but hesitated before he left. “Do you need anything?” 

“Can you look for statements about Breekon and Hope, please.” He was so tired but the Unknowing was on the horizon. 

“I’ll see what I can do.” He slipped out and left Jon alone with his guilt.

* * *

Michael walked through the door that Helen had made, and found himself in a nice apartment. It was furnished with comfortable, modern furniture and a bit too fancy for his tastes, but he could tell that It was trying.

“It is paid in your name.” It said, as he poked around the cabinets. They contained a random assortment of dishware. Something ached in his chest. It was really trying. 

He didn’t know what to say, which was hardly new. The gesture should have been sweet, he was sure it was meant to be sweet, but it felt painfully final. If he accepted this he would be accepting his humanity. If he did that… Michael swallowed and decided to try for a joke. “Is this your way of kicking me out?” He teased. 

“Humans have needs I cannot provide for.” It gestured to the room. “This should bring you comfort, I think. We are still your home.” Helen gestured to a door set in the far wall, where one shouldn’t be. “I will be close, should you need me.” 

“Thank you.”

The creature seemed sad for a moment, then the expression passed in the haze of Its shifting features. “You are unhappy. Why?” 

He gave it a weak smile. “I don’t think you would understand.” 

“I would not. You are… too human for me to understand.” 

Michael nodded. “I like the house,” he said softly. "Really, thank you."

It was quiet for a while. After a painfully long few moments, It finally broke the silence. “You know how to find me if you need me, Michael Shelley.” It said, and then It was gone and he was alone. 

He didn’t do anything for a while, just stared at the door that was still there. Distantly, he felt tears, and laughed at that. The laughter turned hysterical, and then to sobs, a warped sound he didn’t even recognize as coming from him for a while. Eventually he found his way, numbly, to the couch and curled up there. There was a stack of papers on the sleek coffee table, and a phone. Michael ignored the papers and picked up the cell phone instead. He didn’t even know if he could use it. It wasn’t as if he had anyone to talk to. In the end he set it back on the table. 

Michael decided to go shopping, he needed clothes and food after all, and anything seemed better than sitting with that closed door. He grabbed the keys to the flat off the counter and left. A few hours later he had a small collection of jumpers and a few more pairs of jeans. He’d also gone to the grocer and gotten things like toiletries and enough food to last a few days. He put things away in a haze, and then set out a new outfit on the large, soft bed, and went to the bathroom. Michael draped a blanket over the mirror before turning the shower on so hot it hurt, and standing in the spray until it turned ice cold. When the chattering of his teeth got to be too much, he got out, and dried, and dressed. 

The worn wool of the second hand jumper brought him back to himself for a moment. The clarity didn’t actually help at all. Being aware of his situation didn’t fix it. He almost wanted to laugh again as he pulled his damp hair into a loose bun, but he didn’t. Michael Shelley rarely did things that he wanted to. Instead he pulled his coat on despite the mid June heat, slipped the cigarettes he had bought while he was out and the phone into one of the pockets, and left for the Institute. He didn’t want to go to the Institute, but he didn’t have anywhere else anymore. Maybe he never had. 

* * *

Martin stepped out into the Institute’s courtyard for some fresh air, and saw Michael. He was struck first by how pretty the man was, something he had noticed before, but had generally been too preoccupied the previous times with trying not to die. The second thing that struck him was that the man looked half dead again, which formed the beginning of a concerning pattern. The final thing he noticed, before making up his mind to go say hello, and maybe fret over him, was that he was still wearing his coat, even though Martin didn’t really think it was cold. The clouds had cleared up that morning and it was actually rather nice out. 

Michael was in the process of lighting a cigarette when Martin walked up. “Hello,” Martin said, aiming for cheerful but it came out a bit concerned. 

He turned towards Martin and smiled, though it seemed tired and sad. “Hi,” he said, and then took a drag. 

“Are, are you alright Michael? You don’t look well. Did, did Jon do something?” 

Michael shook his head. “I’ve not seen Jon.” He shrugged. “Just tired I suppose.” 

“Michael, it’s nearly 20 degrees out and you’re wearing a jumper and a heavy winter coat, you’re pale as death, and if I’m being completely honest, you look like you’ve been crying. You need to come up with a better excuse than tired if you don’t want me to fuss over you.” Martin responded, far more confidently than he actually felt at the moment.

He laughed a bit and took another drag from his cigarette. “Would you believe me if I said something about a cold?” 

“Probably not. Though I suppose you could make me, if you wanted. Can I sit with you?” 

“Be my guest,” he responded, shifting a bit to give Martin room on the bench. “I could, I suppose. But I don’t think I would. I like you too much.” 

Martin looked away to hide the flush he could feel creeping up his cheeks. “I’ll take your word for it.” He paused for a second and then continued. “It’s okay, if you don’t want to talk about what’s wrong. I can just keep you company, if you want.” He picked at a bit of loose paint on the bench. 

Michael was quiet for a while, and he started to worry that he had pushed his limits, when the man spoke again. “Everything hurts.” He said, so softly Martin almost didn’t hear him. 

“Hurts how?” He asked tentatively. 

“I’m… I’m not meant to exist. I didn’t exist for something like 10 years. Not properly. I don’t mean, like, ‘I’m so terrible I shouldn’t exist, the world would be better off without me’ though it would. I mean, physically I shouldn’t exist. I’ve had my being ripped away, mangled up, shook out a bit, and then stuff back into place. Only it doesn’t fit anymore, if it ever did to begin with, and it  _ hurts. _ ” He took a shaky breath. 

Martin really hadn’t expected to get this far, so he tried to tread as lightly as possible. “Because of the Distortion, right?” He wasn't really sure if that was the best thing to ask, but he didn't know what else to say. 

Michael nodded miserably. “And now I’m too monstrous to be a human and too human to be a monster. I’m caught in the middle of some dick measuring contest between the Eye and the Spiral.” 

He gave a shocked laugh, mostly because he had expected Michael to say a lot of things and “dick measuring contest” was not anywhere on that list. Much to Martin's relief, that seemed to make him smile, rather than upsetting him further. “Sorry, I uh, I wasn’t expecting that. Why do you think you’re too monstrous to be human? You don’t seem very monstrous to me,” He asked, turning to face Michael again. 

“I’m all wrong. Distorted. You don’t see it because I’m not letting you.” 

“Well, will you?” 

“What?” 

“Will you show me? I feel like you probably need at least a second opinion before you go and label yourself monstrous.” 

Michael gave him a bit of an exasperated smile. “You do realize what you're asking?” 

“Um, sure?” 

“Are you really sure about this? You don’t get to cry to me if you get a migraine or forget where you are. I’ve… I’ve not let anyone but Helen see me since, she replaced me, I guess. I don’t know what will happen.” 

Martin shrugged. “I’ve probably seen worse? You did chase me through your halls last year. If you don't want to, I don’t want to pressure you or anything, but I think I’ll be okay.” 

Michael hesitated for a moment. “What if I hurt you?” He asked softly. 

“Well then, we won’t do this again and that will be that.” Martin touched his arm gently. “Besides. I’m a lot tougher than I look.” 

Michael sighed. "Okay."

Martin didn’t even really notice the change at first, until the wave of dizziness hit him. It was disorienting, but it only took him a couple of minutes to regain his bearings. He turned to Michael to tell him that if this was the worst of it then he really didn’t have anything to worry about, but the words died on his lips when he saw the man’s eyes. They had been grey before, but now they were two swirling pools of color.  _ Like the rose window, or a kaleidoscope, or or or -  _ he wracked his brain trying to come up with a comparison that came anywhere close to describing what he saw, but all of the words that he could think of fell woefully short. 

“Martin?” The familiar warped voice drew him out of his thoughts. Concern wasn’t a sound he was used to hearing in it. 

“I’m alright,” he smiled. “A bit dizzy, but it’s fine. Really, I don’t think you need to be so worried, it’s not that bad.” He realized he was still touching Michael and pulled his hand back a little self consciously. “For what it's worth, I actually think you’re rather pretty.” He hummed and then froze in horror as he processed what he’d just said. 

He didn’t see Michael blush. “Oh, um, thank you. I think you’re pretty too Martin.” He said quietly, and Martin’s brain might have short circuited. “Are you okay?” 

“O-oh um, I, uh,” he laughed nervously. He could handle everything up to this point, but now he was in over his head. Martin had no idea what to say. Luckily, he wasn’t sure if it was good or bad luck, Michael seemed to connect the dots and changed the subject. 

He pulled a phone from his coat pocket and Martin remembered he was still wearing a winter coat in the middle of June. “Do you think you could help me set this up? Phones have changed a lot and I’m sort of worried I’ll break it.” 

“Oh, oh yeah.” His shoulders sagged a little with relief. “Hand it here.” He set the cell phone up, and then showed Michael how to use the features that had changed since the last time he’d had a phone. He worried that he might sound patronizing, but Michael seemed grateful for the help. 

“Thank you,” Michael said when he handed it back. Their fingers brushed because of course they did. He must think Martin was an absolute fool. Martin felt like a fool at least. 

“No problem! I’m, I’m happy to help,” he managed. “I um, I put my number in. Just, you know, just in case you need anything. I know the rest of the staff can be a bit... intimidating I suppose? Not that I think you’re easily intimidated or anything! I just, they’re a lot, and -” Oh god he was rambling. Mercifully, Martin’s phone chimed. “Oh, um. Jon need’s me to follow up on a statement. I’ll be seeing you?” He had meant it to be more of a statement than a question, but alas. 

Michael smiled and nodded as Martin stood. “Thank you Martin, really.” 

* * *

Jon found him later that day, at his new desk looking over a statement. Michael’s old desk had apparently been given to Tim, and while he understood that yes, it had been ten years, and yes, he had been assumed dead, he’d be lying if he said it didn’t annoy him. The worst part was that Tim didn’t even use the desk. Not that Michael could blame him, what with the Stranger’s ritual coming up. It seemed like there was some trauma there, too, and he felt like it was probably best for everyone if he just kept his head down until he had a better grasp of the situation. 

The Archivist seemed shocked, though he wasn’t sure what was so baffling to him. “Can I help you?” He didn’t make much of an effort to disguise the fact that he didn’t trust the man. 

“I wanted to apologize. For my actions before.” Jon seemed uncomfortable but genuine. “I don’t think I was quite myself, but that doesn’t excuse what I did. I’m sorry Michael, I… I never wanted to hurt you.” 

Not what he’d expected, but he’d take it. “Thanks.” Michael rubbed the back of his neck. “I suppose I deserved it?” 

Jon gave him an even more baffled look than before. “I’m sorry, what? You think you deserved it?” 

“I was a bit of a cunt to you as the Distortion, so it’s only fair for you to hurt me right?” Now Jon was making him uncomfortable. He’d understood why Jon had hurt him, up until now. He had done it because Michael had deserved it. Michael deserved it because of what he’d done before. That was how these things worked. 

“Michael, you,” Jon paused for a moment, “how much control did you have over what the Distortion did?” He seemed like he was making an effort to keep compulsion out of the question. 

He didn’t see a reason to lie. “None, It doesn’t, It doesn’t work like that. The Distortion doesn’t really have free will, Its actions are all predetermined. Throwing a human into the mix, it's sort of like, adding spices to a meal. Like you can add all the salt you want to chips, they won’t stop being chips. They might be more or less pleasant to eat, but they’re still chips. Does that make sense? I couldn’t control what things It did, I just sort of affected how It did them.” 

“Okay, so when you, when It saved me from NotThem,”

“The Spiral didn’t want you to die, I think my feelings just made It save you in a cruel way.” 

* * *

Jon tried to process what Michael was saying. He was so caught up by the fact that Michael was  _ explaining  _ the Distortion to him, that he forgot about his initial concern. He'd also forgotten his initial shock of seeing the man with his hair up and in glasses. 

“So wait, you’re telling me you  _ understand  _ the Distortion?” He pressed the compulsion down before it slipped out. 

“More or less?” 

“Isn’t part of Its whole thing, you know, not being understood? Without being driven to madness, at least?” 

Michael laughed and there was the faintest echo to it. “You’re getting too caught up in the details Jon.” He gave a tired smile. “The Spiral wants you to look for answers in the individual trees, because if you stop asking why it’s twisting left or right at a specific moment and wonder instead, why it's twisting at all, you’ll see the forest. Even that’s giving it a bit too much credit.” 

“But how does it know to do that? For that matter, how does it know what individual people fear to use it against them?” 

“How does a virus  _ know _ , when it attacks the microbes in your body, that it’s going to reproduce? How does it  _ know _ that the thing it attacks will die, or that it will make the person feel awful for two weeks?” 

“It doesn’t,” Jon frowned, then gasped softly when the realization hit him. “It _ doesn’t _ know. It doesn’t think so it isn’t capable of knowing, it just… acts on its programming.” He looked at Michael, who smiled. 

“Now you’re getting the picture. People treat the fears like gods but they aren’t that complex, not nearly. Even the whole feeding metaphor isn’t accurate. A bacteriophage doesn’t attack bacteria to  _ eat  _ it.” 

“It just needs it to make more of itself.” Jon murmured. 

“Exactly.” 

“How could you possibly know this?” He asked, only a little reverently. 

“I don’t know.” Michael said softly, looking down at his desk. “That’s just... how I’ve gotten through life I suppose. I understand things that other people don’t seem to. Course, I don’t seem to understand the things that other people do. And it's not like understanding all this has done me a lot of good.” He gestured with his hands a bit helplessly. “I got chewed up and spit out anyways.” 

Jon nodded. There were a few seconds of silence, then he spoke again. “What are you reading?” 

“Oh, I was looking at statements that dealt with other failed rituals. I found this one, it's about the Slaughter.” He motioned Jon over and showed him the page. “It just. Didn’t work. Like, they went through all the steps and nothing happened. It doesn’t seem like anyone interfered, it just... didn’t work. Have you ever wondered how it is that something always seems to go wrong just in time?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, the fears have existed for at least as long as humans, right?”

“I suppose.” 

“They have. Anyways, doesn’t it seem, I don’t know, a little  _ convenient _ , that in all of human history, there’s always been someone to rush in and stop the rituals just in time?” 

“What, are you saying that you don’t think they would work regardless?” 

“Doesn’t that seem more logical? I mean, when you think about it the rituals are just people guessing what the fears want. And they don’t really  _ want  _ anything. They just are.” 

“I don’t think I could, in good conscience, not try to stop the Unknowing.” 

“I don’t suppose I can blame you for that. I don’t think you should get complacent. I’ve not puzzled it out fully, I think I’m still missing a piece. But I’m sure there’s a pattern.” 

“Well, I think I’ve learned today that if anyone can find the patterns it's you.” Jon responded with a smile. “I need to get back to my own research, but I’ll think about what you said.” How could he not, it was like Michael had dropped away one of the curtains covering the big picture, that Jon had only been able to peek behind before. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, so I know that my virus metaphor probably doesn't hold a whole lot of water. But it's mostly there too set Michael up as being able to understand what the other people who deal with the fears don't, so it's fine.
> 
> You can find me at [gayforthegoblinking](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/gayforthegoblinking) on tumblr to discuss the story and other stuff.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Michael has a break down and Martin worries. These things are tangentially related. Jon tries to be comforting

It was a couple of days before Martin got a message from Michael, not that he had been counting, of course. He was sitting at his desk in his flat, writing and crossing out lines of poetry over and over, when his phone dinged at him. He considered ignoring it. Most of the time his phone dinged it was something stupid, like a youtube notification. He’d been rewriting the same couple of lines for close to an hour though, and they still didn’t feel right. So Martin decided he may as well take a break. No sense in trying to force it, if the words wouldn't come they wouldn’t come, and torturing himself over it would just take the joy out of writing all together. He picked up his phone, and saw that the notification had actually been a text from an unknown number. 

_ Hey Martin, it’s Michael, I have a really stupid question. _

__ He walked over to his couch and plopped down on it. Martin typed up a few different replies before settling on one and hitting send.  _ I’m sure it’s not stupid, what’s up? _

__ Another message came in after a minute or two.  _ So let’s say, hypothetically, if someone burned their hand, what would they do about that?  _

__ _ How badly did this person burn their hand. Hypothetically of course.  _

__ _ Let’s say also, that this person hasn’t had a body for a while, and they don’t have a frame of reference.  _

__ If he wasn’t concerned Martin might have laughed.  _ Could they send a picture? And then I could tell them how bad it was, and what to do.  _

__ A few more minutes passed before he got another response.  _ Uh, suppose the camera app crashes when they try to take a picture, _

__ _ If this person, hypothetically, sent me their address I could come over and help them.  _ He sat up a bit as he waited for his phone to ding again. Michael seemed very composed, so he was sure the burn couldn’t be that bad. Surely it wasn’t that bad, right? He was starting to get nervous when his phone buzzed again. 

Luckily, Michael didn’t live that far, so it was only a five minute or so cab ride to his flat. It took him a few more minutes to find the elevator, and then Michael’s door, and all in all he was sure the trip had taken less than ten minutes total. He double checked that he’d found the correct door, noted the irony of that, and knocked. There was some shuffling on the other side and then the door swung open to reveal Michael, in a t-shirt and sweatpants, and somehow most surprisingly, glasses. It was strange to see him without a jumper on, Martin thought as Michael ushered him inside. He looked tired.

He noticed the way Michael was cradling his left hand to his chest, and remembered why he was there. “Why don't you sit down, so I can get a proper look at your hand.” He suggested, and Michael nodded. Without his usual layers, Martin noticed for the first time how thin he was. He might have been self conscious but it didn’t look healthy. He resolved to bring it up later. “So how exactly did this happen?” He asked as he followed Michael to the little kitchen table. 

Michael gave him a miserable look when he sat. “You’ll think I’m an idiot.” 

“Oh I don’t know about that.” Martin motioned for Michael to give him his hand. The other man obliged and hissed a little as Martin uncurled his fingers. There was an angry red line across all four of them, that was turning white in the center. “Christ,” he breathed. It was still radiating heat. “Come to the sink with me.” 

Michael inhaled sharply when Martin stuck his hand under the cold tap. 

“Sorry! But you’ve got to get the heat out first or it keeps doing damage. Here, keep your hand under here until it doesn’t feel hot to the touch anymore." He paused for a moment, "Michael what happened?” 

“I tried to get a pan out of the oven, but I forgot I needed a mitt and grabbed it with my hand.” He said quietly, not looking at Martin.

Martin might have poked fun at him, but his expression was concerning. “Hey it’s alright, everyone makes silly mistakes. I once exploded a casserole dish because I turned on the wrong burner. I wish you’d have told me that from the start so I could have gotten here sooner, but it’s okay. We’ll get you patched up.” 

“You’re not going to...yell at me?” Michael asked tentatively, glancing up at him. 

He was really concerned now. “Why would I yell at you?” He kept his voice gentle.

Michael shrugged and looked away again. “I was being daft.” He said, like that was sufficient enough explanation. 

“It was an accident, Michael, you didn’t mean to. Even if you had, I... I wouldn't yell at you. I would want to know why, but I wouldn’t be angry with you.” He didn’t respond, so Martin decided to change the subject. “Do you have a first aid kit?” 

“In the bathroom maybe, down the hall.” 

“I’ll go look for it, keep your hand under the water okay?” He got a nod in response and left to find the first aid kit. 

After he’d grabbed it, he checked Michael’s fingers again and decided it was probably safe to bandage them. Martin had even managed to find burn cream in the kit. He hummed to himself as he carefully spread it over the burns and then wrapped them in gauze. He put a little piece of medical tape on each wrapping to hold them in place and then sat back to admire his work. 

“It's probably going to hurt for a while, can you take pain killers?” 

Michael nodded. “I think so.” 

“Alright, there’s some ibuprofen in the kit, I think, if it starts to hurt really badly just take a couple of those okay?” 

“Okay.” He rubbed his face with his good hand. “Thank you Martin. Sorry for bothering you so late.” He said quietly. He looked so tired.

“Don’t worry about it okay? I’d rather you call me for help than not get any.” Martin smiled gently. “Michael, did you manage to get dinner? You said you were cooking when you got hurt.” 

“Oh, no. No, I just shut the oven off and forgot about it.” That wouldn’t do at all. 

“Do you like take out? I can order you something.” Michael looked like he was going to decline so Martin added, “I was thinking about getting myself a pizza but I can never finish a whole thing, and it’s a shame to waste it. We could share one, if that’s okay with you.” 

* * *

“Okay,” he said, because Martin was giving him such a sweet look. Even though he felt like he’d already wasted enough of the man’s time, much less his money, he would have felt worse sending Martin away. “I can pay for it.” 

Martin knew to quit when he was ahead, and smiled. “Do you know what kind of pizza you want?” 

"Not really? Food's one of the things that didn't really stick past the Distortion. I think I'm a vegetarian? I don't remember why though." He rubbed his neck with his good hand. 

"Well I'll get half plain for you then, does that sound alright?"

"Sure, that sounds fine." 

Martin ordered the pizza and got it from the delivery guy when it arrived. Michael just gave him his bank card to pay with. They ended up on his couch eating and chatting. Well, it was mostly Martin chatting. Michael was content to listen to just him talk, and he found himself actually managing to relax. Occasionally Martin would touch his arm and smile, and that made him feel… safe? He couldn't place the feeling, it was like comfort without pain, if such a thing existed. It reminded him of when Martin had told him he wasn't a monster, drawing his hand away shyly before he'd said Michael was pretty. When Martin smiled at him he thought that maybe that was true, maybe he was enough for someone the way that he was. 

His focus wasn't fully on Martin, as much as he could listen to him talk for hours. His hand still hurt and his attention was occasionally drawn to the door, though thankfully Martin didn't ask about it. He wondered, as he finished his pizza, what Helen would think of him asking someone else for help. Martin's voice brought him back out of his thoughts. 

"So after he got out of the hospital I admitted my feelings for him, and it turns out he had actually been feeling something similar, and we've been together since." He said, before taking another bite of his pizza. 

Something in Michael that he hadn't even noticed was there broke. "Oh, you're in a relationship?" He made his voice  _ sound  _ vaguely interested, but he was quietly crushed. Of course Martin hadn't been interested, he'd just been being nice. Why would someone as kind as Martin like him? Nice people weren't the ones that liked Michael. People who came over to help you when you were hurt weren't the kind of people Michael deserved to have. His chest felt tight all of the sudden as his thoughts started to spiral.

"Yeah, Jon can be a handful sometimes," Martin said with a dreamy smile. "But I love him." 

Michael needed a cigarette. Now. "Well I'm happy for you. Um, I think I'd like to go to bed soon. Thank you for coming over." He didn't like lying to Martin, changing what he saw to someone who was composed and friendly, not someone who felt like they were barely holding together. 

"Oh! I'm so sorry if I've kept you up, you probably should get some sleep. Um, do you want any help cleaning up?" 

"No, no I think you should just go. Goodnight Martin." 

He must have slipped up, because Martin suddenly looked very concerned. "Michael, are you -" 

"Please, just, just go." 

"O-oh, alright." Martin looked sad, but he tried to smile anyways. The horrible thing in Michael's chest twisted more. "I hope your hand feels better soon, I'll um, I'll see myself out. Goodnight Michael." He left quickly. 

Michael was curled up on the floor, clinging to his third cigarette like a lifeline, when Helen appeared in his field of view. It didn't say anything, but It folded Itself up carefully next to him. He realized he was shaking when It touched his arm and he managed to stop. He leaned against it, searching for that warped comfort because even if it hurt, it was still comfort. 

"I don't want to think." He mumbled. "I don't want to be human I-I-" he was cut off by a sob, and Helen wrapped Its arm around him and pulled him closer. It was quiet still, but he felt static push against his edges and gave into the merciful nothingness. 

* * *

Martin was sitting with Jon, trying to figure out what he had done wrong. "I-I don't know what happened, everything seemed to be going fine then he just, he suddenly looked like he was about to cry, and I asked if he was okay because of course I did, what else was I going to do, and and he just told me to leave." He rubbed his face. "I don't know what I did, I have to have  _ done _ something!" He'd gone to Jon's flat instead of his own, because he'd probably go mad if he was left alone with his thoughts at the moment. He was being Martin's voice of reason. 

"You're being too hard on yourself Martin." Jon replied gently, rubbing his knee. "Whatever happened, there's a high chance it was just coincidence. Michael's in a… strange position at the moment, it can't be easy for him." 

Martin nodded miserably. "Still, I feel awful." 

"I think, I think he may have been abused, before the Spiral." He said quietly. "I was talking to him the other day, and he told me he figured he deserved what I did. I asked him what he meant, no compulsion don't worry, and he said that when he'd been part of the Distortion, It had been cruel to me, so he deserved for me to hurt him. He said he had had no control over what It did, but he deserved to be hurt for what It had done. I wanted to ask where he'd gotten that idea, but he said something else and I got distracted." 

"Christ." Martin sighed. "I think you might be right Jon. When I was tending to his burn he didn't want to tell me how it happened, and when he explained it was an accident with the oven he thought I was going to yell at him." He leaned on the other man more. "Fuck, Jon you don't think I said something that reminded him of his abuser do you?" He felt even more awful at that prospect. What if Michael had trusted him and he'd said something or done something like the people who'd hurt him? Michael may never want to speak to him again, worse he may be afraid that Martin was going to hurt him. 

Jon seemed to sense he was getting caught up in his own head again, and took his hand gently. "I can't say it isn't possible, do you remember what you were talking about before that happened?" 

"I um, he seemed like he was spacing out, but I wanted to keep him company just in case. Just, what he had said before and, Jon I'm worried he doesn't eat enough, he's frighteningly thin under all those layers, but that's besides the point right now I guess. I was just, I was just sort of rambling on, so he had someone there instead of just being by himself in that big empty flat. I think I may have -" Suddenly it clicked. "Oh Jon, I'm an absolute ass!" 

"I think that remains to be seen love, what did you say?" 

"I told him how we ended up getting together, and he asked if I was in a relationship and I said yes, but I didn't specify that we're poly, oh Jon he probably thinks I've been leading him on." 

"Yeah," he conceded. "Yeah that is a distinct possibility, though maybe not the worst case scenario." He leaned his head on Martin's shoulder. "You could try to message him and explain maybe?" 

"That's probably the best thing to do. He probably won't want to talk to me at the Institute if I don't get this cleared up before Monday." He pulled out his phone. "I don't even know what to say." He mumbled to himself. 

Jon gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. 

Martin typed out several different versions of the message, deleting all of them, before he finally settled on one. He still wasn't happy with it, and his thumb hovered over the erase button. Then Jon reminded him that he'd been typing for something like thirty minutes, and he had just gotten himself worked up over it. He was right. He had Jon look over the message, just in case, then he hit send and tossed the phone onto the cushion next to him. Hopefully he hadn't ruined everything. He tried not to let himself believe that he had, but even with Jon's support it was difficult not to feel like a terrible person. 

He didn't get a response that night. 

* * *

Martin didn't get a response for two weeks. He may have just chalked it up to saying the wrong thing and fucking up a perfectly good relationship, romantic or otherwise, but no one else had seen heads or tails of Michael for over two weeks. He had called a few times, but the line went dead after a couple of rings each time. At the end of the first week he'd very nervously gone to Michael's flat. He was hyper aware that if the man was just avoiding him then showing up on his doorstep would almost certainly make things worse, but he was  _ worried _ , damn it. No one had answered the door, and no one he'd met in the halls on his way there or back had even remembered ever seeing the man who lived in Apartment 101, much less known if he was okay. 

Halfway through the second week, Martin definitely was  _ not  _ panicking. Okay so maybe every moment he wasn't actively researching the Unknowing was spent imagining all of the horrible things that might have happened to Michael. And maybe he was constantly checking his phone, just in case you know, to the point of Jon sitting him down to say that he was worried about Martin. And maybe then he had broken down sobbing about worms and NotThem and all of the other awful things that could have killed Michael. But he wasn't panicking, he was, he was fine. He was just worried, that was all. A perfectly reasonable amount of worried. 

So after two weeks exactly, when he saw Michael walk into the staff room, bleary eyed and still favoring his non-burned hand, Martin had all but run up to him, and hugged him perhaps a little tightly. Truth be told, he was just proud of himself for not crying on the man. "Oh thank god, you're okay!" He noticed how tense Michael was and let go of him sheepishly. "Sorry sorry, I've just been worried sick about you!" 

There was some mix of confusion and something Martin really hoped wasn't  _ hurt  _ written across his face when Michael looked down at him. "What?" 

"Michael no one's been able to find you for two weeks, I thought you were dead!" 

The confusion lasted a few second, then his face fell and he sighed. "I was sleeping, sort of," Michael said, rubbing the back of his neck. 

"You were sleeping? For  _ two weeks _ ?" Martin couldn't keep the incredulity out of his voice. 

"Time is funny in the halls. I didn't, I didn't know it had been that long. I didn't mean to worry you. Sorry." He looked away. 

Martin took a deep breath. "No no it's alright, I was overreacting, just with everything that happens around here, and no one had seen you, I assumed the worst." He touched Michael's arm gently and managed a smile. "I'm just glad you're okay." 

Martin wasn't sure what he'd expected Michael's response to be, but the look of hurt on the man's face wasn't it. "Are you doing this on purpose?" His voice cracked a little when he asked that, slipping into something warped for a moment. 

He was taken a bit aback. "D-doing what?" 

Michael pulled away from him and looked at something on the floor. "You keep going back and forth," he mumbled. "Before, you called me pretty, but then you said you loved someone else, and now you're touching me and I-I, I don't know what you want Martin." Michael said quietly, hugging himself. 

Oh. Right. That. "Did you not get my message? I wanted to talk to you, to explain, but you never responded and then you disappeared." 

"You messaged me?" Michael looked up again. 

"Oh yeah um, probably dozens of times over the last two weeks." He laughed nervously. "But, the night I was at your flat, I left and then I realized what I'd said and I felt like an ass, so I messaged you to ask if I could come explain. Um, I'm guessing you didn't get it?" He could feel his cheeks warm up. 

Michael's face flushed a bit and he rubbed the back of his neck. "I think Helen tried to play with my phone when It came over." He pulled it out of his pocket and Martin saw that there were deep gouges in the screen, and when he turned it on it only showed a mess of brightly colored pixels. 

So that was why the line kept just going dead. "Yeah that uh, that doesn't look functional." 

He nodded. "I'm kind of surprised it even turns on. But um, you said you wanted to explain?" 

"Yeah! Yeah, do you want to sit down? I can put the kettle on, I could use some tea." 

* * *

Michael curled up in one of the softer chairs in the staff room and cradled the mug of tea in both hands. Martin pulled one of the other chairs over so that he could sit across from him. He seemed nervous, which made Michael nervous. He curled into himself more. 

"So I guess I should start by saying that I am, uh, I have a crush on you I guess." His cheeks were flushed pink and it felt soft. "So you were reading that right. I think I sort of messed everything up when I started talking about Jon. He and I are in a relationship, and I do love him, I wasn't lying about any of that. Though you'd probably know if I was, huh?" He laughed nervously again. "Um, anyways. What I forgot to say was that Jon and I are polyamorous." 

"That's when you date more than one person, right?" 

"Basically yeah, there are different ways of doing it. We, well basically I was wondering if you'd be interested in joining our relationship, I know this probably sounds pretty weird, so absolutely feel free to say no, and obviously take as much time as you need to think about it, and uh, well - I-I'm rambling and I'm going to shut up now." Martin blushed more and looked away. 

"You want me to date you and Jon?" Michael wasn't precisely comfortable, but Martin's explanation so far had undone some of his nerves. He was relieved to know, if a little confused as to why, Martin had actually been flirting with him before. "But, Jon doesn't like me." 

He laughed. "Where on earth did you get that idea?" 

Michael shrugged a little self consciously. "Well, I'm me. People like Jon don't like people like me." Though, he'd also thought that people like Martin didn't like people like him, and yet here they were. 

Martin grinned. "Jon adores you. I think he's a bit, well starstruck isn't really the right term, but he really admires you." 

"Oh." He felt strange. Some emotion he couldn't place. "Why? I'm not," he shrugged again. "Particularly smart or interesting." 

"Okay not true. Jon still hasn't gotten over how massively important what you explained to him the other day is. And you may be one of the most interesting people I know." 

"Oh." Michael wasn't sure if this was praise, but he certainly wasn't used to it. He could feel the telltale warmth in his cheeks and ears.

"How about this, I'll let you think it over, and then in a couple days if you're interested, you can come for coffee or lunch with Jon and I. Sound good?" Martin asked gently.

"Yeah." He nodded. "Yeah that sounds good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me at [gayforthegoblinking](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/gayforthegoblinking) on tumblr to discuss the story and other stuff.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little fluff before everything goes to hell in the Unknowing 
> 
> Warnings for: mentioned past abuse, descriptions of a panic attack

"Michael, I brought -" Jon stopped as he tried to take in the scene in front of him. Michael was perched on the desk he had apparently reclaimed from Tim, hair pulled into what might generously be called a bun, sweater sleeves rolled up as he scribbled on the chalkboard that had been pulled over. The board itself was a mess of colorful shapes and symbols with interconnecting lines and swirls. It didn't look like it was meant to be art, given that Michael's expression looked more like he was trying to solve a math problem. He hadn't noticed Jon, it looked like he might be wearing headphones. 

"He's been at this for hours." He was a little shocked to see Tim leaning on the opposite wall. Tim sounded almost impressed, watching Michael work with vague interest. 

Jon decided to take what appeared to be the olive branch Tim was offering, and walked over. "What is he doing?" Jon made sure to keep compulsion out of the question. This was the first time they had talked since Jon had explained everything he'd learned so far to him. Tim hadn't taken it well at the time, but he seemed at least willing to talk for the moment, and that was something..

Tim shrugged. "No fucking clue. I thought it was vent art or something but he keeps referencing statements." 

"If it's some kind of code I certainly don't get it." 

"Whatever it is, seems important to him." Tim glanced over at him. "Tea?" 

"I was going to offer it to him, but…" 

"I doubt you'll be able to get his attention." Tim laughed a bit. "He's also got 3 cans of Monster up there." 

Jon frowned. "That doesn't seem healthy." 

He shrugged. "I survived worse in uni." He nudged Jon with his arm. "So, I hear you and Martin are keen on him~" Tim whispered, conspiratorially. 

He felt his face flush and he scowled a bit. "I don’t know why you said it like that, it's not as if it's some secondary school drama."

Tim grinned. "You didn't say no. You're also bringing him tea like a doting spouse." 

Jon scowled more and covered his blush under the guise of fixing his glasses. "Yes well, we have gotten coffee together, though I would hardly call myself 'doting'." He got the distinct feeling that Tim was teasing him. 

Tim seemed to understand when enough was enough, and backed off. "He's certainly interesting. He apologized to me for the business with the halls last year, gave me a cigarette, and then asked if he could have my desk." He sounded amused. "Apparently it used to be his way back when he first worked here." 

"It looks like you said yes," 

Tim shrugged a bit. "It's not as if I'm using it. I do my research in the library. He pulled over the board and he's been up there since one." 

He checked his watch and discovered it was nearly five pm. "I'm surprised you're still here, I thought you usually left by now."

"I'm curious to see what he does with it." 

Jon watched with Tim as Michael continued whatever it was that he was doing. After a few minutes, Michael stretched, fingers nearly brushing the ceiling as he raised his arms over his head. He pulled the headphones off and slid off the desk, brushing the brightly colored chalk off his hands and onto his jeans. When he turned and saw them, he made a face. 

"Can I… help you?" He asked, looking from Jon to Tim. 

"Just enjoying the scenery," Tim responded with a smirk. "I'll leave you two to it then." He said, then disappeared out the door, leaving Jon with Michael. 

Michael watched him go, then gave Jon a confused look. 

"Oh I, I brought you tea. But you were busy and I didn't want to interrupt." 

"Oh," Michael blushed and smiled, and Jon discovered that when it obeyed the laws of physics it really was a nice smile. "Thank you, I was just taking notes." 

"That's...notes?" Now it was his turn to look confused. He kept the compulsion down, it was actually getting easier to control, and got a laugh from Michael. It was like his smile, in that it was much nicer now than it had been when he was still the Distortion. 

"Maybe I'll explain it someday. You mentioned tea?" 

"Oh yeah, here." He gave Michael the mug.

"Thank you." He smiled again. "How's your research going?" 

"Not as well as I'd like," Jon sighed. "I think I may have a lead but I'm honestly not sure." 

Michael sipped the tea and nodded sympathetically. "I've not found the piece I'm missing yet. It's like it's on the tip of my tongue but I can't quite reach it." 

"I'm afraid we're running out of time." He responded quietly. 

Michael touched his arm and gave an encouraging smile. "We'll figure it out." 

"I really hope you're right." 

* * *

Michael was at Martin's flat with him and Jon. They had had a dinner date there, and it had been a really nice evening. They had managed to put the Unknowing out of their minds for a couple of hours and have a good time. There had been homemade pasta and a nice-ish bottle of wine, and now Michael was curled up on the couch under Martin's arm, which was impressive considering Michael was a good eight inches or so taller. Martin was warm and soft and he was nearly dozing off as he listened to Jon talking about a line of kings in some country Michael was pretty sure he'd never heard of. Jon's voice was nice and he seemed so excited to share. Martin had that dreamy look that suggested he felt the same. 

He felt like it would be rude to fall asleep while Jon was talking, so he got up and stretched under the pretense of taking dishes to the kitchen. Jon smiled and thanked him when he took his empty wine glass, before launching back into his passionate explanation, and it felt warm and tasted like peaches. Michael thought about saying as much, but he didn’t want to interrupt, so he just took the dishes to the sink instead. Everything was going so well, too well really, so he should have been expecting it when he messed it all up. 

There was a split second where he saw the wine glass start to fall from the edge of the counter, but it had shattered on the ground before he could try to catch it. Instantly all the feelings of warmth and safety were replaced by panic. Michael dropped to his knees and started picking up the broken pieces with shaking hands, managing to cut himself more than once in the process. He didn’t register anything but his whirlwind thoughts and the pain in his sliced up fingers until someone touched his shoulder. He tensed up and drew in a sharp breath when his hand closed around the shards of glass. There were drops of blood on the floor now, yellow and teal and magenta, and that only made him panic more, because now he was making a mess.

* * *

"Michael," Martin kneeled next to him carefully. "Michael, hey, it's okay." 

Michael looked up at him, eyes all colorful and watery and  _ afraid. _ There was something dripping from his fingers. "I-i, I'm sorry." His voice sounded small and it broke Martin's heart.

Martin touched his shoulder again, gently. Michael was shaking. "It's okay, it was an accident, they happen." He gave what he hoped was a comforting smile. "It wasn't even a nice glass, I got it from the pound store. I'm more worried about your hands," 

Michael looked down, as if he only just realized he was bleeding. At least Martin assumed he was bleeding. 

"Here," he said softly. "Let's drop those pieces in the trash and Jon can sweep up the rest while we get your hands fixed up." 

"B-but," 

"I can take care of the mess," Jon said, walking over. 

Michael looked between them and he looked like he was on the verge of tears. 

"Please," Martin added gently. 

Michael nodded a bit and Martin helped him to his feet, then took him to the bathroom to get cleaned up and bandaged. Martin was concerned, but Michael didn't seem in any state to talk at the moment. Instead, he finished sticking plasters on his hands and gave them a final once over to make sure he hadn't missed any cuts. 

"There," he said, holding Michael's hands gently, "all better." He tried for another comforting smile. 

The other man looked like he was having a panic attack. "I'm sorry." He mumbled, still trembling. Martin brought his hand up and Michael flinched. 

He pulled it back, worried that he'd made things worse. "Can I hug you Michael?" He asked, careful to keep his tone even despite his growing concern. 

Michael looked uncertain for a moment. "You, you aren't mad?" He asked quietly. 

"It was an accident, I won't get mad about accidents. I promise." He held his arms out and was relieved when Michael hugged him. He was less relieved when it seemed like Michael was crying, but he just held the other man close and rubbed his back until he calmed down. 

"M'sorry for crying on you," he said when he eventually pulled back and wiped his eyes. Sniffling aside, he sounded mostly like himself, which felt like a huge step in the right direction to Martin. 

"It's okay, I promise." Martin smiled warmly and got a meek smile back. "Can, can I ask you something Michael?" 

He nodded. 

"Have," Martin paused, trying to figure out how to word his question. "Have people in your life before, yelled or, or hurt you for things that you did?" He asked gently. 

Michael nodded again, and Martin's heart dropped. 

"You know that that's not okay right? It's not okay that they did that, and neither Jon or I will ever do that to you, okay?" 

He looked like he might cry again for a moment, but instead he just hugged Martin again and nodded against his shoulder. 

"You've been traumatized, so the panic probably won't go away overnight, but you're safe with us, okay? Neither of us are going to ever hurt you on purpose." He said as he rubbed Michael's back. 

They took a few minutes to get composed, then Martin asked if Michael still wanted to stay, and he said yes. He fussed over Michael for a couple more seconds, double checking that his hands were still properly plastered, and then they left the bathroom. 

Jon was waiting on the couch, and there were two mugs of tea waiting on the coffee table. "Feeling better?" He asked gently. 

Michael nodded and managed a smile. "Thanks for the tea," he said softly. 

"I thought it might help, I'm not as good at making it as Martin, though, so you'll have to forgive me for that," Jon joked and smiled back as Michael and Martin returned to their positions on the couch. 

"You’re tea is lovely Jon, I don't know what you're talking about." Martin chided. He snatched the blanket off the back of the couch and pulled it around himself and Michael. 

Jon kissed his cheek. "If you say so love." 

Martin smiled and felt Michael settle against his side, a little bony, but warm. He still wanted to talk to Michael about if he was eating enough, but they'd already had more than enough difficult conversations for the night, and he wasn't keen on starting another. 

"Will you finish your story Jon?" Michael asked softly.

Jon's face lit up a bit, and he picked up where he'd left off, hand gestures and all. 

* * *

It had been a few weeks since the night they'd made dinner, and Martin felt that things were going well. Michael had opened up to them a lot more, talking about his past before the Distortion. After hearing about his parents and his ex Martin both understood why Michael had been the way that he was and had been more angry than he had in ages at those awful people who could have treated someone so sweet so cruelly. That was in the past though, and the only thing he could do about it was try and make him feel loved and appreciated now. It seemed to be working, the panic attacks had been fewer as time went on, and they'd even gotten to a point where they were all three able to comfortably set boundaries for the relationship. 

Presently, he was sitting at the staff room table with Tim. Michael walked by to get something from the fridge, and kissed Martin's cheek on his way out. Martin recovered from dreamily watching him leave to see Tim snickering at him. "What?" He frowned a bit. 

"Gee Martin, how come the big spooky eye that keeps all of us trapped here let's you have  _ two _ boyfriends." 

Martin rolled his eyes and took a drink of his tea, which he nearly choked on when Tim spoke again. 

"So, have you fucked tall, blonde, and spooky yet?" He asked, leaning on one arm. 

Martin coughed and Tim laughed and patted his back. 

"Don't die on me Martin, jeez. It was just a question." 

He turned to glare at Tim, which only made the other man laugh again. "First of all,  _ what? _ Second, I don't  _ do  _ that. Third, why do you want to know??" 

"He's tall, he's blonde, he's spooky. Nuff said. And because he's like the hottest guy at the Institute, aside from yours truly, and I want to know if he's  _ proportionate. _ " 

Martin blushed darkly. "Well," he said, then cleared his throat so his voice wouldn't sound so squeaky. "Our relationship is open, so if you want to uh,  _ find out _ , you're perfectly welcome to try." He hid his blush behind his mug. 

Tim looked at him. "Wait, seriously?" 

He nodded. "Yeah, I'm not going to explain the details of our relationship, because that's private, but basically since Jon and I aren't interested in sex, Michael is 'allowed', that's not really the right word but you get what I mean, to have other partners. I mean it's all up to him of course, but yeah." 

"Oh. Shit." Tim looked away, and he might have been blushing. "I had assumed he was just taken." 

Margin smiled a bit and poked his arm. "You know what they say about assuming, Tim." 

"Ughhh you sound like my dad." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me at [gayforthegoblinking](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/gayforthegoblinking) on tumblr to discuss the story and other stuff.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Unknowing happens and no one is happy about it 
> 
> Warnings for: mentions of alcohol abuse
> 
> 05.16.20: Slight edit to retcon new canon info

"Uh, statement of Michael, er... Shelley I guess, regarding maybe dying to stop a ritual." He sighed, shifting the recorder a bit. "Again." 

"Jon said that we should all leave statements, I don't remember the reasoning, something about the others having a token to remember us by if we die, or maybe just getting our thoughts in order before rushing into almost certain death. I don't really want my last testament, or whatever this is, left to get dusty on some shelf in the Archives. I don't," he paused, then sighed again. "I'm only really doing this for Jon. I don't want all that's left of me in the world to be a tape in the Archives but, I want to make Jon happy." 

"I suppose I should talk about how I feel." Michael laughed softly. "Though I'm not sure I even have words for that. Martin's been helping me a lot with that kind of thing, but it's still hard. I honestly don't even know if this tape will be playable when I'm done. I, I hope it is. That'd be pretty on brand though, huh? The last recording of my existence and it's too distorted to play." He laughed again, but it was mostly to keep from crying. "Perhaps I should try again. I won't re-record it, don't worry Jon. Stream of consciousness and what not." 

"Statement of Michael Shelley, regarding trying to stop the Unknowing. It's a strange thing you know, the last time I went to stop a ritual I didn't know what I was doing until it was too late to go back. Gertrude was funny like that, I suppose she assumed if she gave me a choice I wouldn't choose death for the greater good." Michael took a deep breath. "I almost hope the cruel old bitch can see me now. Not that she'd care, more than likely, but. You know how it goes." 

"Am I afraid? I think I'm terrified. Not so much of death, or even of the stranger really. I don't think they can do anything worse than to torture or kill me. I've likely been through worse. I suppose I don't want one of those dolls wearing my face, I think they'd have to make a new one for it to fit properly," he gave a little laugh. "But that's not what I'm afraid of. I'm afraid for the others, mostly. I'm afraid for Tim, I still don't know what bad blood there is between him and the Stranger, not that I think that's a bad thing on his part. The Stranger does horrible things," he chuckled softly. "Well they all do horrible things, really. I'm afraid that they'll prey on that anger though. I don't know him very well, but he deserves better than all this. They all do." 

"Martin isn't coming with us, but the Archives is hardly a safe place to be at any given moment. Maybe better than whatever the Circus has planned, but. I know he can take care of himself, he's a lot stronger than people tend to give him credit for, but it's hard not to worry for the people you love when you can't be there to protect them. If you're listening to this Martin, I love you. I, I haven't said it in person yet, but if something happens and I don't come back," he trailed off. "I just need you to know that." 

"I don't think Jon should come with us, not just because I want him to be safe and I think the Circus is absolutely the last place for that, but it just… seems like a bad idea. Orsinov already wanted to use his skin in the first place, sticking him in the middle of her ritual seems like a recipe for disaster. I'm sure it has something to do with whatever Elias is plotting. Regardless, it's already been decided. I'm going because the Stranger can't lie to me. Maybe I can keep the others safe." 

"Helen won't be offering any help, though I think we're on okay terms. I've been helping It feed, at least, and It seems appreciative of that. At least, unless things go so horrendously wrong that It thinks the Stranger is going to _succeed_ It won't be helping. If it gets to that point I'll probably be dead already so. Oh Jon, Martin, if you're concerned about that feeding part, don't worry. The person was trying to lure a child into his car, I don't think he counts as innocent." 

"I suppose I should draw this to a close soon. No sense rambling on about nothing. I'm afraid, but I'm going to try to help as much as possible. I don’t think I have any groundbreaking revelations, no dramatic insights about life." He sighed softly. "If I don't come back, and this tape is all that's left, don't leave it in the Institute. Please. And Jon, if you're listening to this and things did go wrong, don't torture yourself over it. You're not like Gertrude, you gave me a choice." 

"Statement ends, I suppose." 

* * *

Michael wasn't entirely sure how he'd ended up in Tim's bed. Well that wasn't really true. Tim had walked up to him after they'd gone over their plans for the umpteenth time, told Michael that he thought he was hot and asked him to bed. _If we're going to die tomorrow I want to at least try to get laid one last time._ Michael had agreed, because Tim had a point and he was attractive, and also because they'd already gotten hotel rooms on that side of town and his alternative was to stare at the wall until it was time to leave again or he went mad. Jon had already gone to bed for the night and he didn't trust himself to leave in time if he went to the Distortion’s corridors. 

So now he was here, still partially tangled up with Tim after some frankly amazing sex. He could follow the steps in his mind, but it all seemed so surreal that he had a hard time believing it had actually happened. 

"Hey, earth to Michael." Tim's voice tasted like coffee, and he touched Michael's face gently. "You're zoning out on me." 

"Sorry," he smiled meekly, then blushed when his voice came out all warped. "Sorry." He tried again, sounding more normal. 

"Is that difficult?" He propped himself up a bit on one arm to look at Michael more easily.

"Is what difficult?" 

"Making your voice sound normal like that, I've noticed you slip up sometimes and it sounds, well distorted." 

Michael blushed more. "Oh, um, not really? I just forget when I'm distracted. It's more difficult to fix my eyes, actually." 

Tim looked curious. "Your eyes?" 

"Here, um," he shifted slightly and let the thin veil of lies that kept him looking mostly unremarkable fall away. 

"Oh," Tim grinned a bit. "I didn't realize you could get hotter Michael, you've been hiding this from me this whole time?" He asked teasingly. 

"O-oh," he blushed again. 

Tim leaned forward and kissed him softly. "You don't have to change yourself on my account. I like it."

"Thanks," Michael mumbled shyly, hiding his smile in the sheets. 

They were quiet for a few minutes, then Tim spoke up again. "Can I ask a favor?" He said softly, more serious than before. 

"What is it?" 

"If something happens, please don't let the Circus take my body," his voice cracked a bit. "I know that's probably asking a lot but," he gave a weak laugh.

Michael touched his arm gently. "I won't." 

"I don't, I don't want to end up as one of the sick freaks that took Danny." Tim mumbled quietly, not looking at him. He looked up after a moment, and Michael hoped Tim knew that he understood. "Danny was my brother," he started. 

"You don't have to tell me if you don’t want to, it's okay." 

"I want to, if that’s okay." Michael nodded and listened as Tim explained what happened to his brother. Occasionally he tried to be comforting, but mostly he just listened. "Pretty fucked up, huh?" Tim laughed weakly when he finished. 

"Circus themed freaks." He muttered, and Tim smiled a bit. "Can I ask you to do something for me, if something happens?" 

"Course," he brushed a stray curl out of Michael's face. "It's only fair right?" 

He nodded and managed a smile. "I have to do a bit of explaining first, if that's okay." 

"I'm all ears babe." 

Michael blushed at the pet name, then took a deep breath to steady himself. "When I was near the end of secondary school, I had a boyfriend named Ryan Collins. He was a couple years older than me, he was eighteen when I was sixteen. We met through some mutual friends and got together way too fast," he chuckled softly. 

"He had dropped out the year before instead of graduating, and had his own flat. It was really shitty but I was still deep in the closet at home and having somewhere to go where I could be myself fully without worrying about it getting back to my parents was... incredible, it was freeing. I don't know if we were in love, but we'd sit on his ratty secondhand couch and drink bad alcohol and talk about all the things we would do once things were better. He was an aspiring artist, mostly paintings and stuff, but he was also really into literature." 

Michael took another deep breath to keep himself composed. "One day, he found a copy of The Yellow Wallpaper, and he was really excited. He was telling me about it over the phone, I would lie and tell my parents I was talking to one of my friends from school, it had a bookplate from some fancy obscure library," he smiled sadly when Tim's face fell as he connected the dots. "And he said the printing date on it made it a first or second edition printing. He said it was weird though, because when he read it it was really different from the mainstream version." Tim squeezed his hand reassuringly.

"I didn't really listen to the differences, I'd never read the regular version - still haven't, actually, don't want to - but he said it was creepy. If it was as old as he thought, though, it could be worth a lot, so he was going to keep it to try and sell it. Things after that, though, they started going wrong. When I saw him next he looked really rough, he kept talking about how he'd see things moving in the walls at his flat, and there would be patterns that weren't there before when he looked closely. Most of our friends wrote him off as losing it from too much pot or something, one even though he'd started doing hard drugs." 

"I didn't think it was drugs, but I was worried about him, he, he didn't make any sense when I would talk to him. I was afraid he was sick, they say schizophrenia takes a long time to manifest, and me and a couple of our closer friends thought he might be developing it. I wanted him to get professional help, but even if he could have afforded it, he wouldn't go. He just told me I didn't believe him, and if I just came over he could show me what he was talking about. He also said that he couldn't leave, that he was locked in and the doors wouldn't open. I, I was afraid, I know better now, but at the time I only had the mainstream portrayal of mental illness to go off of, and I thought he might hurt me." 

"He sounded so desperate though, so one night I snuck out of my parents house and took the bus to his flat. The door wasn't locked when I tried it, and I eventually found him sitting in the middle of the floor in his bedroom. He looked like he hadn't slept in weeks, he didn't even recognize me at first. He seemed so afraid. When he finally realized who I was he looked relieved, and begged me to help him, to let him out before _it_ reached him." Michael blinked back tears for a moment. 

"I asked him what he was talking about, he, he wasn't making any sense. Ryan took my arm and nearly dragged me over to the wall, and for a moment I tried to get away because he was scaring me, but then I saw it." His voice had gone hoarse and was starting to warp. "I thought it was a stain at first, but it _moved._ I stumbled back from the wall and looked up at him, I was terrified, he seemed to realize I believed him and he actually smiled. He was so," there were more tears now, "he was so relieved that someone believed him. And then, t-the thing reached out of the wall, and grabbed him, a-and it pulled him into it. He didn't even have time to scream, and then he was just gone. And I was alone." 

"I used his phone to call one of our friends in a panic, but they acted like they didn't know what I was talking about. I told them that this wasn't the time for jokes, that something had happened to Ryan, b-but they told me that they had never met a Ryan, and asked if I was feeling okay. I called the rest of our friends, getting progressively more desperate, but they each said the same thing. I remembered that I had a stack of Polaroids under my bed of all of us goofing off together, and ran home as quickly as I could."

"I thought if I could just get those pictures then I would have proof to dispel whatever freak amnesia had come over all my friends, but when I found the photos he wasn't in any of them.There was just a space where he had been. Like he hadn't been there at all when they were taken. I was fully panicking by then, so I checked my phone for his contact info, but it wasn't there. I looked for the paintings that I kept in my room that he'd given me, but they were all gone." He sniffled and wiped his eyes. "Sorry," he said weakly and tried to smile.

"Anyway, after tearing my room apart looking for any evidence that Ryan wasn't just a figment of my imagination and finding nothing, I eventually just curled up on my bed and cried. Whatever that the thing from that book did had completely erased all evidence that he'd ever existed. I stopped trying to convince my friends that he was real after a while, but they all thought I was crazy and stopped talking to me. I didn’t date again for a few years, and that was a mistake but that's a story for later, and I eventually came to work at the Institute. And then Gertrude fed me to the Spiral too." He faltered and Tim pulled him into a hug. 

Michael wiped his eyes again and took a shaky breath. "All that to say, if I die, remember Ryan for me, please. I-I never made a statement about him because I didn't want his memory to be some dusty thing stuck in the Archives for someone to read over and wonder if I was just mental." 

"Ryan Collins," Tim said after a moment, playing with Michael's hair gently. "An artist." 

"Thank you," he mumbled against Tim's chest, fingers grazing over his top surgery scars. "We should try to sleep." 

"Yeah, goodnight Michael." 

"Goodnight Tim."

* * *

To say things had gone to shit would perhaps be an understatement. Okay, it would definitely be an understatement. Michael knew that they shouldn't have brought nearly so many people but no one had been willing to not go, except Jon, and Elias was forcing him to go. Still Basira and Tim, as much as he respected their motivations, were major liabilities. It should have just been him and Daisy. Now, he was the only one who still knew where he was, which presently was a room full of murderous clowns, and there were four other people who he had to get out of that building. Also there was a bomb. Not great odds, if he was being honest with himself. 

"Michael, it's me, Tim~" sang the Puppet as she danced over to him, the face she was wearing didn't fit well, but it wasn't Tim's. 

"You're very bad at this," he responded coolly. 

Nikola laughed. "It was worth a try." She reached for him but he stepped back. "Oh how the mighty have fallen," came the shrill, sing-song voice from behind lips that didn't move. "You're a shell of your former self, Michael, can I call you Michael? I'm going to call you Michael."

"I don’t think identity criticisms bear much weight, coming from you." He didn't let himself look away from the grotesque combination of stolen flesh and plastic, though it was disgusting to look at without the Strangers trickery. She would have seen it as a sign of weakness and he desperately needed to keep an upper hand.

She laughed again, dancing circles around him. "I don’t see why _you're_ even with them." She might have been pouting. "You should be dancing with us, we're not so different really. What is a mask if not a lie?" 

"You hide behind stolen truths and call it deception. The Stranger's nothing more than a cheap imitation." 

"Such mean words Michael! I just want to be friends!" She managed to grab his arm. "It wouldn't be so bad, really, the Doll Maker can leave your little friend's feelings intact, and make him much prettier -" 

He shoved her away, sharp distorted fingers slicing the skin she wore to ribbons. 

Nikola sighed dramatically. "Oh well, I really did want to be friends! But if you're just going to be mean, I won't play with you anymore! Maybe, when this all over and you know how to behave nicely, we can play again. You'll make such a pretty doll, you know! Tata then!" With that she danced away, fully convinced that there was nothing anyone could do to stop her.

Most of the dancers had elected to ignore him after that. They must have taken a cue from Nikola and decided he wasn't much fun to play with. It was just as well for him, he had more pressing matters to focus on. Like Daisy, who was currently in a losing battle with Tweedledee and Tweedledum. The door to the Buried was nearby, and as Daisy managed to kill one, the other started pushing her towards it. _This is going to hurt_ , Michael thought miserably. A door was a door was a door, after all, and with no small amount of effort he was able to twist that door so that when Daisy fell through it, she landed in the Archives instead. The thing she'd been fighting seemed too busy mourning its fallen friend to notice anything was amiss. The coffin groaned angrily at the loss of its meal, but between the music and the fighting no one heard it. 

Okay, so that was Daisy taken care of. Basira was nowhere to be seen, and he really didn't have time to look for her. His head felt like it was splitting from the effort it had taken to summon a door, and make it lead somewhere that wasn't the halls. Michael felt sick but he knew he was running out of time. Jon was up ahead, fumbling with Tim. As he fought his way through the dancers to reach them, they seemed to recognize each other. Tim got to his feet, and Nikola started to move towards him. For a moment Michael was worried that she would reach them first, but then she stopped. As he finally reached them, he saw why. 

"That’s not funny!" She shrieked. 

"I know." Tim responded. 

Time had always been a curious thing to Michael, and becoming the Distortion had only served to worsen that. Usually that was a bad thing, minutes would drag by like glaciers and days would be gone in an instant. Sometimes, though, existing just a little outside of time was a good thing. Like now. In the fractions of a second between Tim triggering the explosives and the actual explosion, Michael forced a door into existence. It was excruciating, summoning a door in thin air. Even as the Distortion, Michael had avoided that, because it was much more difficult than putting one into a wall or cabinet or such. At the moment, though, he didn't have the luxury of choice. 

He managed to push Tim and Jon through the door, already tasting blood, before the explosion ripped through the wax museum. Michael himself, wasn't so lucky though, and the force of the blast slammed him against the far wall of the halls. He crumpled in a pile on the floor, and wondered briefly how he was alive. Then he blacked out. 

* * *

Tim shook his head to clear it. There were no more clowns, so he wasn't in the circus anymore, plus he could think almost properly. He hurt but not nearly enough for it to be because of the explosion. Looking over he saw Jon going through a similar line of thinking. They locked eyes for a moment, both thinking the same question. It apparently came to Jon first, because his eyes went wide and he looked around. 

"Oh no," he breathed hoarsely. 

Tim was going to ask what Jon was talking about, but he followed the line of Jon's gaze and found his answer before he'd fully finished formulating the question. It was Michael, collapsed on the floor like a ragdoll in a growing puddle of what appeared to be brightly colored paint. All at once he realized three things. They were in the Distortion’s halls, Michael had somehow saved them from the explosion, and he was seriously hurt. "Fuck," he gasped, and started to scramble to his feet. 

At some point between realizing what was happening and trying to act on it, Helen had appeared. It leaned over and scooped Michael up off the floor. "You should go." It said, turning to Jon and Tim. There was a door in the wall next to them now. 

"Will he be alright?" Tim asked. Michael was limp and unresponsive, and panic was starting to set in. 

"I don't know." Helen responded quietly. "I will try to put him back together, but it is not something you can witness and come away from alive and sane, and the longer I have to wait, the less likely I will succeed." 

Tim looked at Jon, who nodded. Neither of them wanted to leave Michael like that, but Helen was the only one who might be able to help, and if It was telling them they had to leave for him to survive, they didn't have much choice. Reluctantly, they took the door Helen provided, and found themselves in the Archives. 

There was a gasp when they stepped through, and Martin ran up and crushed Jon in a bear hug. "Thank god!" 

Tim looked around and saw Melanie, Daisy, and Basira in the room as well, he and Jon must have missed something. "Um," 

"What's going on?" Jon asked, apparently having recovered enough from Martin’s hug to speak. 

It was Basira who answered. "You've been gone for four days," 

"We thought you were dead!" Martin pulled back enough to look at the both of them. "What happened? We've been worried sick ab- wait," his face fell. "Where's Michael?"

Tim looked to Jon again. He was too exhausted to even be shocked by the news that they'd somehow lost four days in the five minutes or so that they'd spent in the halls. He was also too exhausted to try and explain. Thankfully, Jon seemed up to the task. 

"At the Unknowing," Jon started slowly, "Tim detonated the explosives. And Michael saved us from the blast by taking us into the halls, but he got badly hurt in the process." He sounded as numb as Tim felt. "Time is different in the halls, for us it's only been about ten minutes since the blast. Helen is going to try and fix Michael." 

"Oh god," Martin murmured. 

Basira opened her mouth but Tim had had more than enough for the day. Whatever it was could wait. "I'm going home." He announced, loud enough to make it clear that he wasn't going to be convinced otherwise, then stalked out of the Archives before anyone would try to stop him. 

He actually went to a liquor store first, where he grabbed the largest bottle of whiskey he could afford, before locking himself in his flat. He thought about turning his phone off as he poured the first tumbler of many, but he just muted it and threw it face down on the couch instead. Three hours, several youtube videos, and half the whiskey bottle later, found Tim passed out on his couch. He spent most of the following day sleeping off his hangover. That evening, after a shower and takeout, he finally looked at his phone. 

There were a handful of email notifications that he dismissed without checking. The same with what few social media accounts had survived the previous few months. Finally there was a string of texts from Martin. 

_I know you probably aren't up for a phone call so I'll just give you the basics,_

_Elias is in jail, Peter Lukas is in charge now. I'm stuck as his assistant and I think he wants me to join the Lonely but I'm not going to do that. He's talking about a new power but he won't actually tell me anything useful._

_I think that's all the important stuff, please text me when you get this so I know you're alive._

Tim rubbed his eyes, then sent back _OK._ He sighed and then tapped out another message. _I'll come back in tomorrow, talk to me then._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmm foreshadowing 
> 
> You can find me at [gayforthegoblinking](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/gayforthegoblinking) on tumblr to discuss the story and other stuff.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [gayforthegoblinking](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/gayforthegoblinking) on tumblr to discuss the story and other stuff.


End file.
